Best Wicks Poems
In one brief moment
you saw me as I am
without a word spoken
palm open for my hand.
Nary a harp string plucked
silence graced the air
silhouettes became one
my heart I laid bare.
Candle wicks were unlit
full moon a distant past
my emerald eyes glowed
your love echoing back.
Fire our skin to skin heat
scent unique unto us
not a flower in bloom
our souls we gave in trust.
In one brief moment
you saw me as I am
the memory of each breath
my bliss I'll always have.
03-28-2017
Six steeple towers, cold as steel, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame, subdued and tame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in lurid swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars and bare bazaars, though no one's there to fete.
The souls who come with jagged tongue won't sing a silent psalm,
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb.
"Closer"
There is a light
hidden in the heart of man
deeply embedded it summons ignition
each day the portal opens further
something beckons
come closer
come closer
the door widens
like the mouth of the whale
in your dreams you are Jonah
inside your vessel waits the one
who walks on water
the heart is a burning flame
lighting minds like wicks
rapturous disbelief
3 days, 3 nights
before closure
there seated steadfast
marking your time
all commanding
beckons the closer
believing your disbelief
the Sun reflects
in your eyes
come closer
come closer
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
LUX VITAE
"The Son, The Sun" / Low
https://youtu.be/fPS8ZvWVv0M
"the fish's eyes were like windows and a pearl inside its mouth provided further illumination."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonah
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/communion_1007994
Not Ready Yet
Give me just one more day of Christmas jubilee
Not ready to let go of Christmas, yet
Or stop gathering flecks of stardust
Scattered from the Heavens
Still reveling in the sweet aroma of frankincense
Or bovine straw
Lingering on evening's breath
To walk by candles in the window
Enchanted by twinkling lights of welcome.
My heart pitches a tent
On hillsides among olive trees
Craning it's neck to hear newborn angelic carols
And longs to cradle the pure cry of Love
Again and again
Infinite Love I can hold and understand.
Stay one more night, sweet season of hope,
Beside me
Not letting the lights twinkling with wicks of joy,
Festooning trees and doorways,
Dim with memory
Or exchange red and green for blue and ice
On starless nights.
Not ready to eat
The last crumbs of Christmas manna
Or leave the firesides of desert travelers
Stargazing.
Just one more night precious holiday
And then you can slip away
To walk from Bethlehem to Jerusalem.
The earth moaned
under the heat. On the porch
wicks drowned in melted
citronella candles
under limp wind chimes.
Withered vegetation drooped.
Finally –
a grey morning mist
gently
moistened cracked soil. The parched land
lifted
its head,
listened
as the wind chimes began to dance.
The thunderclap
announced the resurrection;
the downpour
was redemption.
August 27, 2018
For contest: Wind chimes
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Candles burn low flickering,
brilliance ebbs with each flurry;
Focus fades midst bickering
waxing cold, dreams get blurry.
Slipping away, day by day
Wicks grow short the consequence
of waste and careless trimming;
Message lacks a permanence
because of dogged dimming.
Slipping away, cannot stay
Vigilance would glorify
Christ as the Light that kindles;
our darkness does signify
negligence, burned-out candles.
Slip-sliding far, far away
written 22 May 2016
The teacher was a steady flame
the students, tiny candles
She lit their wicks without a hitch
not once did her flame twitch.
lantern’s rain and flame.
lighting wicks the dark,
butts saffron water
in vase, purple flares—
plucky wildflowers,
other side of pane.
3/26/2021
Pic 4, Tableau 2
Sponsor: Joseph May
PS syllable counter used
You kindle the lamps
Little earthen bowls
Holding circles of mustard oil
Wicks like snouts of desire
The sober flame radiating rosy heat
Smell of ripened wheat
I get my book
Under the leaves of the light
Words snuggling in delight
The dissolving nights recede
Your pent-up poems, all freed
You become the words
Swords disappear
Mightier pen gets prepared
The lamps in the corners
In triangles and tweets
Light on the lips of darkness
Salvador Dali
It is poetry of Diwali
Smileys hovering in the air
Scented light from your hair
You kindle the lamps
Taking light
From my candle-hand
Blushing eyes command
Compelling lamps
Jesus is the Master Potter
By Franklin Price
09/14/2023
Jesus, is the master potter
We, the followers His Clay
He molds us into shining lamps
Reconstructing day by day
He lays His hands upon us
Kneads and shapes us 'til we're done
He is the Master Potter
Who recreates us, He's the one
As cracks appear, remolds us,
Provides our structure with relief
Then fuels us, and lights us
To be His lamps that shine belief
He trims our wicks when needed
To even light the darkest hour
Leading others to salvation
His lamp has given us that power
He adds a globe of glass or crystal
To let the light burn in the wind
To guide lost souls to heaven
For since the garden, all have sinned
He cleans our globes when they have darkened
And our lamps are not as bright
And we doubt that we are able
To shine out believing light
If Jesus had not died for us
On that cross upon the hill
Would be no need to have our lamps
For other's nights, our lights, to fill
Like shining stars sparkles a trust with credits
Yet often in media they proclaim about their debts
Public ought to work out its merits
Is there truth at least in tit bits?
When their followers photographs do click
Their social organization receives approval tick
They proclaim about pouring oil on flickering wicks
When other applaud, applaud cries, ‘I am sick.’
Their royal band will play
When its founder steps on the stage to stay
His audience has no other way
For authority applauds none saying ‘nay’
Their photographs pictures the most pitiful cry
Even you’ll shed tears if you give it a try
Between cause and contribution where lies the wry
Beware! Else in social oil pan you will fry
Applaud its value does lose
When with a mask it does pose
It knows to whom it ought to give repose
Applaud decreases when men doth it propose
Continued from Part 1
The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
for churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.
No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, all alone amongst the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.
Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane)
though echoes in the nave still din and chalice cups retain
an altar wine that tastes of brine decaying in the rain.
Coiled candle sticks, with twisted wicks, no longer 'lume the cracks -
their dying flames revealed the shame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
when deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Six steeple towers, steel though now drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
The chapel chimes? Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillon, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
No saints will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor bless pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm.
Continued in Part 3
The warden’s bewildered, the keeper’s amazed
as the gate gapes behind us, a hole in the haze.
Our steps seem uncertain, the cobblestones crazed,
pearly stars burn above us like pinwheels ablaze.
Though lanterns hang vacant in streets staring blind,
broken paths paved in puzzles compel me to roam,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The cannons keep calling, the piccolos shriek
and the druids drift, drumming, while pale pagans speak.
They’re urging me forward, my senses they’ve mined,
and the trail is erupting, come hie to the hills
I’ll not leave you behind.
The looking glass glistens, a firefly glows,
and the brownies leap lightly on tiny tip toes
for the twilight’s collapsing, which serves to remind
that as dusk turns to dust, with no time for farewells,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The ponies of plunder prance, passing nearby,
as crusaders on stallions cast stones from the sky.
The figments they’re facing have paid them no mind,
but our broncos are bolting. Corral what you need,
I’ll not leave you behind.
My visions are swirling, they flash from the crown,
from the rainbows of summer, the tinsel in town.
While the compass wheel’s spinning, the minutes unwind
inside evening’s auroras – so cling to my cape,
I’ll not leave you behind.
Drooping droplets of wax adorn pinched candle wicks
while the vampire steeple’s cathedral clock ticks
of the terrors in tombs where fagged flames lie reclined
with their flickers fast fading – abandon the glim,
I’ll not leave you behind.
Continued in Part 2
The blinking downing sun of August
adorns the very tall stalks of wheat
with his last golden warm sunrays...
as the green kernels bend on stems.
The grasshoppers rest on soft leaves,
awaiting more wafts of cooler breezes;
black ants carry wicks in small droves,
until they reach the fragrant groves.
It's two months before harvest time,
the eyes of the farmer show no dire;
he can't wait for the kernels to ripen,
in mid October he will know his gain.
Delve in his mind, his thankfulness
is gratitude for a year well-earned;
sweat has paid off with huge profits,
the wheat field is a frontier of gold.
Dancing candle flames,
On a frigid Winter night:
Sleeping wicks still smoke.